It met it head-on.
Trigger finished checkingthe locks and windows, his movements quick but quiet. When he turned back toward the bed, his gaze softened again—like he was deliberately stepping out of one world and back into another.
“You need a minute,” he said, more statement than question.
I nodded, pulling the quilt tighter around me even though the chill had nothing to do with temperature. Everything had rushed back in too fast—danger, Thomas, town, reality.
Trigger crossed the room in two strides and knelt in front of me, bringing us eye to eye.
“Hey,” he said softly.
His hands settled on my knees, warm and steady, grounding me in a way nothing else could. I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“I hate how fast it all comes back,” I admitted. “The fear.”
He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. “I know.”
The simplicity of it—no fixing, no dismissing—made my chest ache.
His thumb brushed over my knee, slow and deliberate, and heat curled through me again, surprising in its intensity. Like my body hadn’t forgotten last night. Like it was still listening.
“You okay?” he murmured.
I nodded. “I just… need to remember I’m here. Not there.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Then let me help.”
He kissed me—not urgent, not heated. Just warm. Present. A kiss meant to anchor instead of claim.
But it didn’t stay that way.
The second his lips lingered, the quiet hunger returned, deeper this time. His hands slid up my thighs, slow enough to make me shiver, firm enough to make me feel wanted. Seen.
I leaned into him, my hands finding his shoulders, fingers curling into muscle and heat and solidity.
“Eli,” I breathed.
His breath hitched. “I know.”
He kissed me again, deeper now, his hand slipping beneath the edge of the quilt, resting against my hip. Not rushing. Just reminding me of everything we’d already shared—and everything we hadn’t finished yet.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against my shoulder, his breath uneven.
“This still doesn’t change anything,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me comfort because I’m protecting you.”
I lifted his chin so he had to look at me. “I’m not giving you comfort.”
His eyes darkened.
“I’m choosing you.”
Something in his expression shifted—like restraint tightening instead of loosening.
“Rylie,” he warned gently.
I smiled. “Five minutes,” I whispered. “Before we have to be brave again.”
He exhaled, a low, helpless sound.
